Come, Time

by Richard Jenkins

CHAPTER EIGHT

  I know little of Portland Airfield. All I know is its general location, buried deep in the countryside, and its use as a helicopter flying school. Driving there, I take the quickest, most direct route. Once I twist free of the country lanes, an A-road takes me most of the way. The road carries few other vehicles, but even so, a thin sense of paranoia teases me. I pull the sun visor down to cover my face and argue with myself over the speed I should drive. To speed or not to speed? I play safe and keep within the limits.

  Nearing the Airfield, I notice that a short but broad hill overlooks it on one side. I decide to drive there and reccy the area before making any move closer. A single lane road takes me to the top of the hill and a small, unoccupied lay-by. I park, pull the binoculars from my rucksack then scan the view of the Airfield.

  The Airfield covers an area of sixteen or so hectares. Cutting through well trimmed grass fields are three runways, all intersecting each other and all at least eight hundred metres in length. A public road borders the entire perimeter, and I can see no security fence housing the Airfield in. Away from the runways, and to my left, I see two large hangers. A three metre high, wire security fence and gate hem these hangers and two acres of land in. Parked on this land are three helicopters, all of which have the familiar blue and white livery. On a field, fifty or so metres in front of the security fenced area are parked two single engine planes and one helicopter. The helicopter is painted matt black and has a thinner tail and a more bulbous cabin than the training helicopters. Away from the runways, and to my right, I can see a car park area and two single story concrete buildings. Signs reveal one of the buildings to be a reception and teaching centre and the other to house a visitor centre and café. Attached to this building is a public toilet. In the car park are parked three average family saloons and the Land Rover Freelander.

  Dotted around the airfield are a dozen or so derelict buildings all of which seem to date from the Second World War. People are scarce. I can see only one man who, dressed in clean overalls, stands outside one of the hangers talking into a mobile phone.

  Hearing a car approach ahead of me, I drop the binoculars and twist my body round to face the backseats. Here I pretend to fumble around for something lost. As the car passes, I twist back and return my gaze to the airfield. Movement by the café immediately catches my eye, so I raise the binoculars and take a look.

  Stepping out of the café are four men, Phillip and Andrew and two others who are unknown to me. The two unknown men could be brothers. They share clothes, attitude and presence. Their clothes differ only in colour, khaki or stone combat trousers, safari shirts and sleeveless tracker jackets, all of which could have been ragged-rolled by the African bush. Both stand a solid six foot tall or more, and both give the impression violence is always the easiest option. Their skin is bronzed and their hair fair. The English countryside feels too small and too tame for them. Give them a big game hunt or African coup to join and profit from and each would seem right. Andrew and Phillip look quaintly middle-class and painfully English beside them. The four of them start talking; Andrew takes the lead. The conversation doesn’t appear to be friendly banter rather business talk between work colleges with issues to resolve. Within two minutes, the issues have been tamed. Phillip and Andrew turn and walk sharply away.

  The rumble of a tractor approaching ahead of me penetrates the car. Once again, I twist to the backseats and fumble around. With the tractor passed, I re-engage the binoculars and continue to watch.

  The Land Rover speeds towards the exit. The two unknown men continue to stand and talk. One of them glances at his wrist watch then casually gestures with a flick of his head towards the café. Are they going back in? I focus the binoculars on their footwear. Both wear stone coloured walking boots. The boots step out of frame. I zoom out and watch as they both enter the café.

  I start the engine and pull quickly away. I drive casually into the airfield and head straight to the car park and reception area. I park the car in a parking bay and scan the area for CCTV or other prying eyes. As far as I can tell, I remain unseen. I exit the car and walk purposefully away. With my head down, I quickly pass the reception and café buildings. Reaching the Men’s public toilet, I pull open the door and enter.

  Inside I am alone. Straight ahead of me stand four sinks, to my left five cubicles and to my right six urinals. The door behind creaks shut. I enter the middle cubicle, shut the door and lock it. Here I wait.

  Ten minutes passes, painfully. I struggle with thought. The urge to flee is strong. The need to see some sort of horizon nearly drags me away, but I force myself to stay seated and contained.

  The sound of the outdoors blows in followed by a forceful cough, a short, sharp sniff, a man spitting and a door creaking shut. I kneel on the floor and peer through the gap between door and floor. Standing at one of the urinals is a pair of stone coloured walking boots.

  I stand, pause for a beat and ready myself for violence. I flush the toilet, unlock and open the cubicle door. Ahead of me stands an unknown. Will he look? Of course not, not in the men's toilet. I rush towards him and smash the heel of my right palm into the back of his head. This thrusts his head forward until his forehead cracks into the wall he is facing. With my hand latched on to his hair, I yank his head back and knee him in the kidneys with all the force I can muster. I then smash his forehead back into the wall. My left hand pulls out my hunting knife and holds it against his throat. I then wrestle his limbering body into the cubicle where I throw him seated onto the toilet. Fifteen seconds of silence and recovery. I watch his strength and senses return. He looks at me and the knife, then smiles.

  ‘What are you going to do, kill me?’ he asks.

  His accent is South African, his tone, mocking. I place the edge of the blade against his right cheek, pause for a second then whip the knife away slashing down into his flesh.

  His whole body tense,s and I can see him fight to repress any verbal release of pain. He presses a hand against the wound and looks at me with absolute hate. The situation could quickly explode. In the briefest beat, I see a twitch that tells me the man is about to fight, to roll the dice for all or nothing. I make the first move. Moments later, he is slumped over the now broken toilet, bloodied and unconscious.

  I skim a hand through all his pockets and find a wallet and mobile phone, both of which I keep. As I turn to leave, one final action comes rushing to my mind. I locate his right hand, which is lying lifeless on the floor, then stamp on it. Trigger man or pilot, he’s out of a job.

  I exit the toilets and walk to the Golf with a false air of calm. Once inside, I start the engine and pull smoothly away.

  As I leave the airfield, I get a sudden need for distance, to drive many miles away. I have no specific location in mind, but instinct tells me I should head south, to the pull of London. If Oakley has a presence in England then surely it touches the Capital. It should also be noted I hate cities, I hate crowds, I hate people swarming around me. This is something the police should easily uncover and from it conclude that I am likely to remain in the countryside, which I should, but won’t.

  When alone, I rarely feel lonely, but in crowds I often do. Where there are few, you will rarely go unrecognized, where there are many, you usually do.

  What is my objective? To clear my name? To find out why Oakley killed his mother? Then what? Protest my innocence? Who will listen?

  The miles ease blankly by, and the fuel tank draws empty. I turn into a passing petrol station and position the car to drink its fill. Security cameras scour every angle. All I can do is pull my up collar, dip my cap and keep my stare dangling towards the ground. I fill the tank with exactly sixty pounds of fuel.

  As I walk across the forecourt, I keep my head lowered, and my stare dipped towards my wallet, in which I pretend to rummage for the right amount of cash. Reaching the entrance, I glance over the newspaper stand and half expect to see my face and my moment of fame but, nationally at least, I remain a pre-fam
e nonentity.

  Inside the so-called mini-supermarket, two men are queuing at the till. Taking their money is a miserable looking, over-weight, teen girl who for some reason looks angry with embarrassment.

  I take a detour around the shopping aisles, waiting for the men to finish their business. As soon as they do, I pace towards the counter, head down, turning to look with fake interest at the useless products and end-of-aisle special offers I pass. Catching a glimpse of the girl, I see her stare is as rooted to the floor as mine. Reaching the till, I push three twenties across the counter and flash the girl a smile. It misses her, as she doesn’t care to look. I turn and quickly leave.

  As I climb back inside the car, the phone and wallet catch my attention. Could the phone, like the other, expose my location? I’m sure it could, but why would they add to it such a device? To protect their men? Simply because they can? Ignoring the risk, I turn it on, and as quickly as I can, note down all the phone numbers that have been called or received, as well as those stored in the phone book. Checking the text messages, I find only one, which reads, "Better than Aids!" Attached to it is a photo, I open it up and instantly recoil in shock. The image is a close-up of a black man: his skin is primed with a glutinous sweat, and torn with sores, beacons spewing pain, his stare rages horror. The colour image defies a sense of a diseased, medieval hell. Does this mean anything to me? More sickness?

  I turn the phone off. Unable to take the risk of keeping it, I remove the SIM card, as this could contain useful information. I then open the car door and gently slide the phone across the ground. Let somebody find it and keep it on the move.

  The wallet, which is anonymous, black leather and seems brand new, yields two hundred pounds in cash and a single corporate, platinum credit card. Although the credit card shows the Visa emblem the card issuer is unknown to me, a bank named AST. The name embossed on the card is Gordon Morkot, below which is embossed GGG Corp LTD. Is this who they work for, Gordon, as well as Oakley?

  A batch of five cars pulls into the station one of which eyes my space. I start the engine and continue on my way.

  The motorway, like modern air travel, is theoretically a good idea, but in practice it is dull, tedious and sweaty with congestion. The promise of speed is rarely fulfilled. Hell, if there is one, is not a destination; it is an endless commute through an endless rush hour. Most people would fail to comprehend how poor a life I would lead before joining the commuter class. Up and down the motorway, dead in time and pointless in space.

  My planned destination is the nearest service station. I don’t know for sure, but I guess such a place will have Wi-Fi.

  Why, when we have so much choice does it seem we are always in a state of compromise? Here I am, chugging along at thirty miles per hour, caged-in and unable to change lanes. I have made a choice and from it there is no escape. Historically, of course, I move like a God but here, amongst the automotive soup, I feel my whole body is being stamped on, restricted and contained. But for whom, for the good of what? The herd, must we all be a digit in the herd.? Is no one allowed to roam alone?

  To my left, I see a channel with a clear horizon - the hard shoulder: arrogant and vacant, smugly guarding its unused space, like some arsed-up aristocratic landlord, utterly appalled by the thought of trespass. How dare it. I swerve left and accelerate hard away. I know the risks but cannot find room to care. Car horns shout and blare. Stares of hate no doubt lynch me, but in ten minutes I am back on the carriageway proper speeding along at seventy mile per hour. Twenty minutes later, I reach my desired location, a motorway service station. As I cruise down the slip road that leads to the car park, I see a sign that advertises free Wi-Fi.

  The car park is only twenty or so percent full. It goes against my instinct, but I would prefer there to be crowds of people, thick, dense crowds to become lost and anonymous in. I park as close to the main building as I can. I do this in the hope of catching the Wi-Fi signal whilst remaining in the car. I pull out the laptop and turn it on. As it boots, I scan my environment. The only point of interest is the mass of road markings that cover the tarmac. In one sweep of my stare, I count seven zebra crossings. Official walk zones, marked with thin yellow lines, dictate where it is safe to walk. Give way markings are crammed in at every opportunity. White arrows and yellow zigzags demand something, but what I don’t know. Am I safe to leave the car? Is this the watering hole of the stupid, or maybe the government is communicating with aliens.

  I try to connect to the internet but get no signal. I will have to enter the building. With cap tilted down and collar up, I exit the car and hurry away.

  I enter the foyer. All seems calm, even lazy. The foyer is a hub from which different businesses connect. The Wi-Fi zone is in a café. I’ll buy a coffee and connect to the internet. A shop window poster tempts me with the promise of a cheap Pay As You Go mobile phone. Does the staff in these places give a shit? Are we as faceless to them as they are to us, passing blobs of matter all wishing to be elsewhere?

  The coffee is self-service, so I fill a large cup. Thankfully the coffee is advertised as real. I count out the exact right money and head for an empty checkout where an employee, a young woman, slim, blonde and still attractive in a sexless uniform, stands wringing her hands with a cloth. She looks at me for a beat then returns her stare to nowhere in particular. As I reach the checkout, I extend the hand that holds the cash. She reciprocates, and the money is exchanged. In a flick of the eye, she sees all is correct. She then throws me the briefest of smiles and returns her stare to nowhere is particular. Another silent transaction. I walk away and take a seat that exposes by back to the largest view possible. There is a handful of people who share my space, but none can see my face.

  I pull off my rucksack, remove the laptop and take five minutes to connect to the internet. Checking my new email account, I see I have two new messages, both from Friends Reunited, both telling me, or rather Oakley, that Jonathan Walmsley and his cousin Reese, have sent him a message. I follow the link to my account and log on. The first message from Jonathan reads:

  "Well bloody hell, shock news, Oakley gets social!! So you finally had therapy and it worked!! It’s Jonathan Walmsley by the way. So how’s life at CGG? I see your ugly mug has improved. A sad day for man. Now even scientists feel the need to take the surgeons knife. I thought you were all a bunch of autistic twats who really shouldn't give a shit. I’m still in finance but don’t believe the hype, I’m still making a bloody fortune!! How’s my old house? The one I SOLD TO YOU JUST BEFORE THE CRASH!! You still at 14 Upper Addison? I’m not so far away. We should meet for dinner. When are you next in London?"

  The word ‘improved’ has a link attached to it. I click on the link and a new page opens. As the page loads, I see text which is written in Spanish. I check the domain name, which reads CGG.com, and the top of the page where an emblem featuring CGG resides. Is this their corporate website? On the page, I see seven photos, portraits of men, all posed as key figures in the company. One of these photos, the second in-line, is labeled Oakley Robertson.

  I pause in a moment of disbelief. Is this truly him? I move in close and stare at his face. He is smiling broadly, is well groomed, handsome and has jet black hair. His skin looks naturally tanned. He is wearing a suit jacket and tie and, I guess, is aged in his early forties. He seems more an executive than a scientist. If I past him in the street, I might think him a prick. But evil? A man who gave the order to kill his own mother? Something in me struggles to accept. But, of course, this face could mask a killer, and the camera can lie with ease. Evil can look like any of us, even on a good day. So this, it seems, is the man who laughs at my misery. I start to feel hate, start to feel it twitching in my eye’s and face. It is not a good look for a man seeking to be anonymous. To calm my thoughts, I open the second email. It reads:

  "Oakley, this is Reese, your cousin. You surprise me, in fact you shock me. I have tried to contact you at work, with the obvious need to talk to you, and all I get
is your silence. And now, this, on the night we learn of your mother’s murder you add your details to friends reunited and ask the past to catch up with you??? What should I make of this? I know family relationships and feelings towards family members can be complicated, but do you care nothing for your mother or the rest of your family? I know the police have contacted you and told you all they can. I also know that you are in the country. If you plan to attend the funeral, then please get in touch. You know my father’s details; he is arranging the funeral. As of yet, due to police red tape, no date has been set, but you are officially the next of kin! You should be involved. If I hear nothing from you, then I will assume no further contact is required."

  He is in the country. At his house in London? I Google 14 Upper Addison, London and quickly find a location. The house is in Holland Park, West London, an area certainly befitting a man of wealth.

  Have I found him? If yes, so what? What power does it give me? Could I pay him a visit and confront him? Maybe, but why, for what purpose? To beat him until he calls the police and confesses? What other evidence could I take to them? Can I afford his lawyers? Of course not, but then, think of vengeance? What if something were to happen to him? What if he was to die in suspicious circumstances? The police would then investigate him. Ask who and why. What was the motive? No sign of theft, just murder. They would investigate his life and unearth his secrets. Am I clutching at straws, sounding desperate? Maybe I am, but then on his orders, I am now forced to live, desperately.

  Could I do this? Could I kill him? In theory, yes. I could kill him for me, for all his victims, past and future. I could do it to tame my anger. For the basic need to survive.

  I feel an advantage, however slight, but also know this advantage could quickly fail. He could after all contact his cousin for real. They could meet at the funeral. Wouldn’t he go? Wouldn’t he feel obliged? If I move on this, I need to move quickly. Make the decision and pursue it without doubt or hesitation.

  I save the street map to disk, as I do the emails, his photo and the CGG website. I need to move, to drive to London. I have no other turn to take.

  Before leaving I follow the poster and buy myself a Pay As You Go mobile phone.